


do you ever get tired of being always by yourself?

by Ellis_Sullivan



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Bakery, Hello and welcome to the shitshow, Other, and i will take shit only from peter when i meet him at the pearly gates of heaven, this is my going to sleep fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26638939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Sullivan/pseuds/Ellis_Sullivan
Summary: It’s almost too early to function for most people, but you’ve grown used to waking up before the sun is out and truly enjoy the quiet most days. Technically, the bakery is open, but it’s usually at least another 15 minutes before your sleepy-eyed regulars stumble in for their coffee and muffins. You figure you can be given some leeway as you wipe your hands on your apron and come around the corner to greet your customer.Your eyes land on a gangly, tall, and too sweet to be older than 30 brunette practically swaying on his feet. You feel your lips curl into a smile you can’t seem to help. Boys are always cute when they’re half-asleep, but this one makes you want to wrap a duvet around his shoulders and send him shuffling back to bed.You also want to pull the hair curling just behind his ears and see if it’d make those big brown eyes water.(so, maybe you run a bakery, and maybe you shoot your shot and ask the cute fbi guy on a date, and maybe it grows from there)
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 22
Kudos: 55





	1. hot person scones

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the shitshow. no pronouns have been explicitly used yet, so feel free to project as much or as little as you like. i have no posting schedule and this is a work in progress, so read at your own risk. love you, bye :)

You hear the bell above the door ring as you’re removing the last batch of scones from the oven. 

“Give me one second, and I’ll be right with you!” you chirp, racking the still steaming baked goods on your near-full cooling rack.

It’s almost too early to function for most people, but you’ve grown used to waking up before the sun is out and truly enjoy the quiet most days. Technically, the bakery is open, but it’s usually at least another 15 minutes before your sleepy-eyed regulars stumble in for their coffee and muffins. You figure you can be given some leeway as you wipe your hands on your apron and come around the corner to greet your customer. 

Your eyes land on a gangly, tall, and too sweet to be older than 30 brunette practically swaying on his feet. You feel your lips curl into a smile you can’t seem to help. Boys are always cute when they’re half-asleep, but this one makes you want to wrap a duvet around his shoulders and send him shuffling back to bed. 

You also want to pull the hair curling just behind his ears and see if it’d make those big brown eyes water. 

You shake your head. It is approximately two hours too early to be horny, even if this guy looks good enough to eat.

“Good morning!” you say with a cheerful smile. “And I do mean morning. What’s got you up so early?”

The young man blinks twice, your words taking a few seconds to penetrate the early morning haze that he seems to be wrapped in.

“Uh, I have a flight to catch-- Could I get a coffee?” he replies quietly, his eyes tracking across your face as if he was trying to figure out how you were talking so coherently at 4:30 in the morning. You let out a low, sympathetic whistle. 

“Oof,” you say. “You must have a hell of a job if it’s got you up and running before the sun’s even up.”

That makes him crack a tiny smile and his hand comes up to tuck a piece of his hair back behind his ear.

“Uhm, yeah, I guess you could say that,” he said wryly. “But so do you, apparently. Seeing as you’re here, and more awake than you really have any right to be.” 

His eyes widen after that and he looks absolutely mortified. He opens his mouth, presumably to apologize, but you snicker before he has a chance. 

“After years of practice, I should hope I know how to beat the early morning blues,” you replied with a grin. You leaned over the counter and beckoned him closer with a finger. “You wanna know the secret?”

He stepped forward almost immediately.

“Honestly, that’d be great,” he said, eyes sparking with interest. “I have a lot of early mornings and even more late nights. Being as alert as you seem to be would be a huge help with jet lag.”

“Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,” you say. “But making the coffee strong enough to chew also helps.”

He stutters out a laugh as you turn around to grab your largest to-go cup and fill it with the drip coffee you really only make for yourself and the one or two other monsters who have as high a caffeine tolerance as you. 

“I don’t know if Benjamin Franklin would appreciate the editorialization,” he says. 

“Eh, Ben Franklin knew how to party,” you reply as you snap the lid on the cup. “I’m sure he would let me get away with it once he realized after a cup of this stuff, he could go all night without blinking.” 

You slide the cup across the counter, smiling at the way he sucks in a breath as your fingers brush together. He flushes a little and you smile wider as he gives you a tentative smile back.

“Now, can I get you anything else?” you ask. “As you can see, I have a veritable bounty of baked goods. You beat the rush by about an hour and a half, so you’ve got your pick of the litter. And if I’m being honest, you look like you could do with a croissant. Or four. Oh! I just took some cinnamon scones out of the oven! Let me box them up for you. On the house!”

“Are-- Are you always this, um, this generous with your early morning clientele?” he calls after you as you dash back around the corner and into the kitchen.

“Only with the cute ones,” you yell back, placing half a dozen scones in a simple white box. After a moment’s thought, you scrawl your name and number on the inside lid. Might as well shoot your shot. You come back around the corner and set the box on the counter. He looks a little shocked, but is doing an admirable job of shaking it off.

“Speaking of, does the cute one have a name?” you ask. 

“He does! I mean, I do,” he stammers. “Reid. Doctor Spencer Reid. Nice to meet you. Do you-- Do you have a name?”

“I do,” you reply. “But I’ve taken up more of your time than I should have and I’m about to be swamped by a bunch of business people who have yet to become fully human, and I like you too much to expose you to that level of unpleasantness.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Believe me, I’ve got a higher tolerance for that kind of stuff than you’d think,” he said. 

“All the more reason to spare you,” you reply. 

“I’d suffer through it if it meant you’d tell me your name,” he says, and oh, what a fuckin’ sweetheart. You smile as the bell above your door rings as Claire, your most reliable customer, stumbles in. 

“Enjoy your scones, Doctor Reid,” you, tapping the lid of the box twice. “Hope to see you again soon.” 

“But I haven’t even paid you yet,” he says, reaching into his pockets. 

“Oh, believe me, it truly is my treat,” you reply and take in his blush with a grin. “Have a safe flight!”

He looks at his watch and mumbles something under his breath. 

“Thank you. For the coffee. And the scones. And the-- Thanks!” he says as he scurries out the door with a small wave that he looks like he instantly regrets.

“He’s cute,” Claire says as you hand her coffee over. “You put your phone number in the box?”

“Yyyupp,” you say with a grin.

“You give him your hot person scones?” she continues, taking a knowing sip of her latte.

“Sure did,” you reply. “If he doesn’t text me by the end of the day, I’ll have to tweak the recipe again.”

“If they’re the same scones you gave me, he’ll call you in an hour,” she says as she puts a few bills in your tip jar. “I miss those hot person scones.”

“If you didn’t have that pesky wife, you could have had my hot person scones every morning,” you tease. “But I’ll tell you what-- throw another buck in the tip jar and I’ll wrap you up a few for old time’s sake.”

“You’re bleeding me dry,” Claire groans as she tucks a five into the jar. “Now, bring me my scones.”

“Yes ma’am,” you say, and you walk into the kitchen with a grin.

~*~

Your phone buzzes around 6:15 AM, and you wave Emma One, ironically your second favorite employee, over to the till. 

“Important business!” you say in answer to her questioning look. 

“The hot doctor’s calling you?” she asks as she breaks a twenty.

“Yyyuuuup!” you say triumphantly and accept the proffered fist bump. You dip out of sight and into the kitchen, pulling out your phone with a grin.

_ “Very clever,”  _ his voice says dryly over the line.  _ “This is Spencer Reid by the way. From this morning.” _

“Good morning, Spencer Reid. How’d the coffee treat you?” you ask with a grin.

_ “The coffee really helped. I’m not sure how you made it so strong and so palatable at the same time,”  _ he replies, and it sounds like he actually is trying to puzzle it out.

“I’m a caffeine wizard,” you say. “And I’ve been waking up early for the past seven-ish years, so it’s also a survival skill. Did you like my hot person scones?”

_ “Your what?”  _ he chokes out.  _ “I mean, they were good! But why do you call them that?” _

“Because I only give them to hot people,” you explain. “Were they good enough for me to ask you on a date? I can guarantee more scones if that sweetens the pot.”

_ “I don’t know when I’ll be back in Virginia,”  _ he says.

“That’s not an answer typically given to a yes or no question,” you tease.

_ “Yes. Eventually,”  _ he says, shy. __

You allow yourself a silent fist pump of victory. 

“Well, I look forward to it whenever it happens!” you reply. “Stay safe, Doctor Reid. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

_ “Me too,”  _ he says, and you hear some teasing voices in the background of his call and can picture the blush that must have appeared high on his cheeks.  _ “I have to go now.”  _

“Of course,” you reply. “Bye, Spencer! Enjoy the scones.”

_ “I will. Thanks again. Okay. Bye,”  _ he says quickly and the line clicks.

You add his number to your contacts and allow yourself a quick moment to do a victorious dance. Then, you smooth down your hair and pocket your phone before you lose your whole morning to mooning over cute boys with bad haircuts. 

~*~

You’ve got your music on loud enough to rattle your baking sheets, and the mopping is so close to being done you can practically taste it. You bellow along to the chorus of your current favorite song and dunk the mop triumphantly back into the bucket. The worst is over. A quick glance at the clock confirms that if you haul ass and resist the urge to fuck around, you could close up shop by 3:30 today, and still have an hour to get ready for your date. You pause your music, ready to speed clean and finish the last bits of prep for the next morning. 

Of course, that’s when you hear the tap at your door. 

You groan, mentally rehearsing the “Sorry, we’re closed” speech in your head before you see who it is. 

Spencer Reid pulls his hand away from your door and gives you a little wave that’s accompanied by a shy, sweet little smile. You can’t help but grin back as you tuck your hair behind your ear and head over to the door. You unlock it, and poke your head out the door. 

“You’re early! Welcome back to Virginia, Doctor Reid,” you say cheerfully. “Come back for more hot person scones?”

“You know, nobody actually knows where scones first originated. In popular culture, they’re typically associated with England, Wales, and Ireland, but the first written record of scones dates back to a 1513 translation of  _ The Aenaid  _ by Scottish poet Gavin Douglas. It’s interesting that you bake them, even for a, ah, select clientele, seeing as it’s not a particularly American confection,” he says as he slides past you into the empty cafe.

“You know, my grandma on my dad’s side was Scottish,” you say, trying hard not to show how charmed you are by the info-dump you just experienced and realizing almost immediately that it would be nearly impossible. “It was one of the first recipes I learned how to bake.”

“Nostalgia was my first guess,” he replies, setting his book bag on an empty table. “You have a very distinct way of pronouncing rounded vowels, and you use the traditional European pronunciation of scone. ‘Scahn.’ It makes sense that you’d have a thick brogue in your family tree.”

You raise your eyebrows. 

“All that from a fifteen minute long, uncaffeinated conversation, huh?” you say, impressed. “I’m almost afraid of what you could find out after a latte or two.”

He gives you a small smile and shuffles his feet.

“It’s kind of my job. I’m a profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico,” he says.

And that  _ is _ kind of a surprise.

“So, you’re saying I  _ shouldn’t  _ take you out to coffee for our date,” you say after a moment’s pause. “For fear of you ferreting out all my secrets.” You punctuate with a wiggle of your fingers. He blinks, and huffs out a laugh. 

“That doesn’t worry you?” he asks. 

“Should it?” you ask. “Spencer, I want to get to know you. You have a weird job, I’ll give you that, but I’ve dated weirder.” His eyebrows practically shoot into his hairline.

“Like what?” he asks.

“Doula, stable-hand, a very memorable ventriloquist,” you list off. “Trust me, we get all types in this joint. 

“It’s just-- I haven’t had the best luck. Relationship-wise,” he says, matter of fact. “I don’t typically date.”

“I’m not sure if I’m shocked or incredibly grateful at my good luck,” you say. 

“Shocked?” he sputters.

“Oh my god, you can’t tell me that people don’t want to eat you with a spoon,” you reply, gesturing to a chair. “Sit down, I’ll make the coffee.”

“If that’s the case, which I highly doubt, you’d be the first to come right out and say it,” he says, caught halfway between flattered and shy.

“And that’s why I’m here on a date with you, and those bozos are fantasizing about what could have been,” you say with a grin.

Spencer removes his bag and hooks it on the back of the chair in a bit of a daze. “You know, a 2011 study found that only 16 percent of men enjoy being asked on a date, as opposed to the 83 percent who prefer to do the asking,” he rambles, tucking his hair behind his ear. You hum in surprise as he sits, pulling two mugs out from under the counter. Your special occasion mugs, chip free and a nice, welcoming blue.

“Lucky for me you’re one of the 16 percent,” you say as you pour the coffee. “Do you take your coffee black, or should I fetch some coffee  _ accoutrement _ ?” 

“Sugar, if you have any,” he replies, and you watch his long and lovely fingers wrap around the mug and pinken slightly at the heat. “It was a fairly small survey, and only for college-age applicants. The real number probably sits in a higher percentile.”

“I suppose a guy who turns me down  _ exclusively  _ because I asked him on a date instead of the other way around is  _ super  _ not the kind I want to date,” you say. “I like an open mind.”

You place the sugar bowl on the table, and watch with amusement as he scoops a heaping spoonful into his cup. And then two more after a nearly unnoticeable moment of hesitation. 

“You want any of the coffee to come through?” you tease. 

“Hey, I like an open mind too,” he shoots back, hiding his grin behind the mug. “Don’t knock it ‘til the only sleep you’ve had in roughly 72 hours has been in hotels and on a plane.”

“I’ll reserve my judgement, then,” you say with a laugh, and gently clink your mug against his. 

“Have you always been a baker?” he asks after you’ve shared your first sips. 

“Pretty much. It was a deadly combination of a love of sweets and inheriting my Gran’s love of providing,” you reply. “I inherited the bakery after she passed away. Plus, I’ve always been an early riser. When I stayed the night with her, me and Gran would always be up before the sun rose. Give me a free afternoon over a late morning any day.”

“Well, your grandmother taught you well,” Spencer says. “My team couldn’t stop talking about your scones. I’m pretty sure you’ve won yourself some new customers.”

You let out a gasp of mock outrage. 

“You gave away my scones?” you say, scandalized. “You realize those are a hot commodity. And I do mean hot.”

He snickered a bit. 

“I promise, I had at least two,” he says with a small smile. “And it seemed rude not to share my good fortune. Especially on a long plane ride. I felt like a dragon protecting his horde of baked goods.”

“Alright, I’ll let you off the hook this time,” you say. “But you’re on thin ice. Those scones are given by appointment only.” 

“Understood,” he replies, and his smile is crinkling his eyes now, like, give a girl a break. 

“So, Doc, tell me more about this team of yours,” you say after a sip of coffee, and before you know it, Spencer is off, coffee near forgotten as he gesticulates and introduces you to the hot-by-proxy people he works with, and person by person, he shows his family to you.

Aaron Hotchner--  _ Hotch, _ Spencer says, right after introducing his name, as if the full length of it felt wrong somehow-- the stern but caring father. 

(“I’ve seen Hotch smile in the office exactly three times,” Spencer says. “All three of those times, Garcia spilled her coffee because she was so shocked.” 

“He sounds like he’d be a hoot at parties,” you reply.

“You know, weirdly enough, he is.”)

Penelope Garcia, the kooky aunt who sends you baked goods in the mail.

(“Her name is Penelope?” you ask. 

“Her first name, yeah. Most of us just call her Garcia,” Spencer says. 

“Penelope Garcia. God, what a name,” you say. “Lucky I ran into you first or you would’ve had competition. I’m adding her to my scone list.”

“You haven’t even met her before,” Reid laughs. 

“Sometimes, a person just has hot vibes, Spencer,” you reply with a smirk.)

David Rossi, a weird but lovable uncle.

(“Oh! I know him! I’ve read his book,” you say suddenly.

“I’m not surprised. It’s a New York Times bestseller,” Spencer says. “He’s very proud.”

“I remember his author picture. A very distinguished goatee.”

“Yeah, I think he’s proud of that too.”)

Emily Prentiss and Jennifer Jareau, the cool older sisters.

(“They  _ both  _ got you a magnetic chess set for your birthday?” you laugh.

“Yeah, they were both really embarrassed about it, too,” he replies.

“Well, great minds, as they say,” you say.

“I never told anyone, but I re-gifted both of them,” he says, bashful.

“ _ What?!”  _ you wheeze.

“I don’t have a pathological need to play chess!” he says. “Plus, I already have a magnetic set.”)

Morgan, the ride-or-die big brother. 

(“He seems really cool and everything, with all of the nicknames and girls, but he’s really just a teddy bear,” Spencer says. “I’m pretty sure he’s the one who brings Christmas cookies in every year. ”

“Ah, I can rest easy knowing you’ve got a fellow baker in your ranks,” you say.

“Teddy bear,” Spencer repeats. “But don’t tell him I said that. He’ll try to start a prank war with me, and I’ll be forced to grind his bones into dust.”)

The conversation spools out from there, science bleeding into art bleeding into literature, and faster than you realize, the afternoon passes. Golden light filters in through your windows, and Spencer’s coffee has long since gone cold. To your chagrin, the sun is setting and your eyes are beginning to droop.

“And that’s the really fascinating thing about Frankenstein, you know, that the true horror of it lies in the man, rather than the monster he created,” Reid finishes. “Mary Shelley, a teenage girl, created this cultural phenomenon that fed this landslide of fiction--”

“Spencer, I genuinely want to hear the rest of your thoughts,” you interrupt gently, “ _ especially  _ the ones that pertain to Frankenstein because I love a scary story, but I have to get up at 3 AM tomorrow, and I’m fading fast.” 

Spencer blinks a few times, seemingly noticing the change in light for the first time. His fingers find the forgotten mug of coffee again.

“It’s not really a true horror story,” he muses.

“I don’t know, a man made of spare parts is pretty freaky to me,” you say, brushing your fingers against his as you take his mug. “And I’m taking this away for your own sake, because one, cold coffee is disgusting, and two, it’s nine o’clock and that’ll keep you up for the rest of the night.” 

“It’s very good coffee,” he replies softly.

_ Better get used to it,  _ you think as you set the cups on the counter. You turn to face him and give him a warm smile in return. 

“It’s better hot. Besides, if I let you have cold coffee in my bakery, my gran would roll over in her grave. Only the best for my suitors,” you say with a grin. 

“Oh, suit- _ ors _ ?” he teases. “I see the quote unquote  _ hot person scones  _ I received were not so rare as you led me to believe.” 

You snort.

“Suitors, past tense,” you reply with a laugh. “I get the feeling you’re going to be hard enough to wrangle without adding more testosterone to the mix.”

Spencer sputters for a moment, before saying, “Wrangle? I’m not a herd of sheep.”

“Oh, certainly not,” you agree. “Sheep know better than to drink caffeine after 5 o’clock.”

“There are flaws to that line of reasoning that I would be happy to lay out for you,” he responds. “The first and most obvious of which being that sheep don’t drink coffee, or any other sort of caffeinated beverage.”

And now you’re grinning like an idiot, and Spencer’s smiling too— this happy flush across his cheeks that’s spreading to the ears peeking out from behind that mop of hair and, honestly, it’s a miracle you haven’t just grabbed him by the front of his rumpled shirt and kissed the daylights out of him. His gaze softens a bit, and he looks down at the table, nervous, and you move forward, but something in the way his shoulders have hunched gives you pause. 

You weigh your options, and reach across the table and gently squeeze his hand. He looks at you, equal parts relieved and embarrassed. You give him a warm smile, letting your thumb rub once, twice across the back of his knuckles before withdrawing it. 

“Spencer…” you say softly.

“Yes?” he murmurs back.

“...I need to go to bed, but I had a really good time tonight,” you say mournfully. “And my afternoons are free for the foreseeable future.”

He smiles ruefully, running a hand through his hair.

“Same time tomorrow? Barring a cross-country flight,” he asks, eyes hopeful.

“How could I say no to that face?” you say with a small smile. “Stop by for coffee. On the house.”

“Throw in some scones and we have a deal,” he replies, cheeks still so red. 

“Goodnight, Spencer,” you laugh.

He smiles, and takes a breath before darting forward and giving you a sweet kiss on the cheek and suddenly your face is hot too. Your fingers press to the spot, feeling both breathless and ridiculous for feeling that way about a  _ kiss on the cheek,  _ who are you, Lizzie Bennet? 

For a moment, you both stand close enough to kiss, faces red, lingering on the fringes of a moment. Then:

“Goodnight,” he murmurs.

“I really hope you don’t have to catch a cross-country flight tomorrow,” you blurt out, and that stalls him a moment. But then he smiles, and you’re breathless all over again.

“Me too,” he replies, and then the bell above your door chimes and you’re alone with your Gran’s favorite mugs and the absurd urge to do a bell kick.

“Okay,” you say to the empty room. “Time for bed.”

You grab your mugs and allow yourself a giddy laugh as you head upstairs to your apartment. 

You don’t notice the mechanical whirr of a camera auto-focusing. You don’t hear the rapid-fire click of a shutter going off. You certainly didn’t hear it during your first date with Spencer Reid. You won’t hear it until it’s far too late. 


	2. the emma's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever realize a lot of the appeal of coffeeshop/bakery au is in the community and sense of family you get from the employees? ah to be part of a found family

It’s around 8:30 AM the next morning and you should have had at least two more cups of coffee. You’re nearing a break in the almost steady stream of patrons you’ve had since 6:45 AM. The next customer gives you his order, and as you go to ring him up, you remember the brush of Spencer’s kiss on your cheek, and your face flares up with heat. 

Oh god, you really like this boy. 

Emma One makes a gagging noise, and Emma Two stifles a giggle. The customer clears his throat, and you roar back into action. You flash an apologetic smile at him before handing him his receipt. Then, you flap your hand at Emma Two until she (slowly, oh  _ my god _ so slooooooow, and never has she  _ ever  _ been more close to being demoted to second favorite employee) moves over to the register. Emma One rolls her eyes from where she’s packaging up the last of the coffee cake.

“Oh my god, it is too early for you to be like this, boss,” she says. “Both in the morning, and in the relationship. You’ve had one measly date.” She hands the box of coffee cake over the counter to Claire, beautiful Claire who will almost certainly be on your side.

“Seconded,” Emma Two chimes in as she makes change for Claire, who will certainly not betray you.

“Oh, the hot doctor made it back in time for your date?” Claire, the  _ deceiver _ , asks innocently, like the Emma’s won’t leave the paying customers in the dust in order to get the dirt on your love life and  _ oh my god  _ you’re blushing again. Emma Two practically squeals with delight. 

“Deets, deets, deets, deets,” she chants gleefully.

“Emma One, you can judge me when I’m dead. Emma Two, I’m about to name Emma One my favorite employee again. And Claire, why are you breaking a fifty in my tiny bakery???” you finish, frazzled. Claire gives you a smug grin and waves a hand in the air. 

“It’s what I had on hand,” she says.

“Claire, you’re holding a credit card,” you say flatly.

“Also, I know it riles you up,” she says as she pulls a twenty out of her change and slips it into your tip jar. “And that brings me a certain amount of joy that even your coffee can’t beat.”

“One day, your fat tips won’t be enough to save you from my wrath,” you vow and she calls out a classy “Ta ta!” as she walks out the door. 

“God, she is so fucking cool,” Emma One says after a moment.

“He’s really, really cute,” you moan and turn to face the wall. Your forehead smacks against the wall, and you will your heart to calm the fuck down.

“You are not cool at all,” Emma One snorts. “Fuckin’ dweeb.”

You give her the finger, and press your hot cheeks to the cool paint. She flicks the back of your head and sweeps past you into the kitchen to finish icing today’s cupcakes. You push away from the wall and call out, “For the love of God, don’t make the icing black this time. The way it makes the customers teeth look is genuinely distressing.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!” she yells back. 

“I’m literally your boss!” you say. “It is  _ my job _ to tell you what to do!”

“ _ I _ think it’s sweet,” Emma Two says. “I hope it works out.”

“Welcome back to first place, Em,” you say, patting her amiably on the back. She grins at you, and you can feel the force of Emma One’s eye roll all the way from the kitchen. You bend down below the counter to grab a mug for a cup of coffee. Maybe that’ll help get your mind back in the present instead of losing yourself in daydreams about soft brown hair and softer kisses on the cheek. 

The bell above the door gives a cheery jingle, and you call out a customary, “Good morning!” from below the register.

“Good morning,” a familiar voice responds. You shoot back up from behind the counter.

“Spencer!” you say. “Hi!”

“Hi,” he says with a small smile. 

“Hi,” Emma Two chirps.

“Hi,” Emma One  _ also  _ chirps and when the hell did she sneak out of the kitchen. 

“Hi,” Spencer says, a little confused.

“Oh my god, go ice a cake or something,” you hiss, shooing your employees into the kitchen. They go, after a long moment of prolonged eye contact and shit-eating grins. You run a hand through your hair and give a helpless shrug. 

“Sorry about them. They were raised by wolves,” you say, and hear Emma One give a muffled shout of disagreement. 

“There are actually many documented cases of children being raised by many kinds of different animals,” Spencer says. “Monkeys, wolves, dogs, sheep, and even bears have been known to protect human children and take them in. Of course, when or if these children are returned to civilization, their learning is often severely impaired, and they have trouble integrating with society as a whole.”

“So you’ve met Emma One, then,” you say dryly, and he laughs. 

“I haven’t had the pleasure, but I  _ am _ very familiar with nosy co-workers,” he says. “At least yours don’t try to profile me while I’m standing within earshot.”

“No, they’ll save that for when you leave,” you snort. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” he says. “To go, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” you reply, happily retrieving a cup for him. “Sugar’s on the cart by the wall. Are you still gonna swing by later this afternoon?”

He frowns, and gives a helpless shrug. 

“That depends on the cases we’re presented with today. Hopefully, it’ll be local since we just got back. But you never know. I’ll call you and let you know when I do,” he says. “I’m sorry I can’t be more specific.”

You wave off his apology. 

“Don’t be. You’re a real life Sherlock Holmes,” you say, handing him his coffee. “Go catch your Moriarty. And call me anyway. We have a conversation about Mary Shelley in the works.”

His eyes light up at the mention. 

“Honestly, she was such an interesting woman. Did you know she kept her late husband's heart after his death? They found it two years after she died in a drawer in her writing desk, along with one of the final poems her husband wrote,” he tells you. 

“I guess she couldn’t bear to part with him, however small the piece,” you say dryly. “Let me grab your scones.”

“You really don’t have to—” he starts. 

“I will hear none of it!” you say. “Also, I gave you extras for your team, and a separate box for Garcia.”

Before he can say another word, you dart around the corner and nearly smack into the Emma’s, who have hidden themselves neatly against the opposite wall in order to more effectively eavesdrop. 

You decide to ignore it, and grab the box you had set aside this morning in the hopes he might stop by. The Emma’s make kissy noises at you as you round the corner, but honestly you’d endure worse if it got you Spencer’s smile. 

And what a smile it is. Sweetly pleased and just a tiny bit astonished, like he can’t believe anyone would give him the time of day, let alone free pastries. You can’t help but smile in return as you pass the boxes over to him. 

“Thank you,” he says. “Garcia is going to be thrilled. And a little suspicious. But mostly thrilled, I think.”

“I aim to please,” you reply. 

“And you hit the mark every time,” he says earnestly. “If you keep this up, you’re going to have to deal with  _ my  _ nosy co-workers. They’ll be clamouring for details once I bring these in.” 

“I like to make an impression when I can,” you joke, and he laughs.

“Thanks, again,” he says, and awkwardly balances his coffee cup and boxes on your counter. He reaches out and takes your hand in his, laces your fingers together, and squeezes. You smile and squeeze back, then without hesitation, give him a little yank that has him stumbling forward to where you can press a kiss to the very corner of his mouth.

“Only fair I give you one,” you murmur before pulling away and reluctantly untangling your fingers. 

He swallows, cheeks pink, and nods. 

“Yeah, yeah, of-- of course,” he stutters out. “Uh-- I need to… My meeting is in, in thirty minutes so I should--”

“You should,” you say with a grin. “Have a wonderful day, Doctor Reid.”

“I will--” he replies as he gathers his coffee and pastries and heads to the door, “--endeavor to, ah, do that. You-- I will call you.”

“I await with bated breath,” you say, and give him a final wave as he disappears down the street. You allow yourself a moment of silent celebration and a final giddy smile before going to check on the Emma’s. They have, unsurprisingly, stayed in optimal eavesdropping formation, but the cupcakes are done and they’ve made decent headway on a birthday cake that has to be set for tonight, so you cut them some slack. 

“You’re disgusting, and I hope it works out for you,” Emma One tells you as she’s setting the cupcakes in the display case. “Seriously, that was nauseating.”

“He’s so skinny,” Emma Two says with wonder. “I was picturing Tommy Lee Jones from Men in Black, but I think I’ve made cakes that are bigger than him.” You snort.

“That’s why I’m sending him off with a baker’s dozen of baked goods, Em,” you reply. “He looks like the type that forgets to eat.”

“God, I thought they just existed in movies and LiveJournal blogs,” Emma Two says. 

“Didn’t we all,” you say. “Now, gird your loins everyone. I’m guessing we have five more minutes of quiet before the Mom brigade rolls in.” 

~*~

Your phone rings around 2:00 in the afternoon, as you’re sweeping up the remains of an unfortunate oatmeal raisin cookie. You grin when you see the name on your screen. 

“Hey, Sherlock,” you say in greeting. “Is the game afoot?”

_ “While we do use some deductive reasoning, we don’t really fully investigate a crime scene like Sherlock Holmes and Watson might. Profiling is a tool used to identify an Unsub-- er, a criminal-- by identifying their personality and behaviors based on an analysis of the crimes they’ve committed. We utilize tools like language analysis and geographical profiling as well. Holmes usually narrows down his suspects through more traditional means of investigation, like interviews and the occasional disguise,”  _ he says. 

“So, what you’re saying is I’ll never see you in a deerstalker,” you reply.

“ _ Actually, Arthur Conan Doyle actually never described Sherlock Holmes wearing a deerstalker by name. The illustrator Sydney Paget popularized that depiction, and soon it became one of the hallmarks of his character, which is ironic because the character would have likely rarely worn one seeing as he was described as fashion forward. A deerstalker is traditionally a rural outdoorsman’s cap, and Holmes spent most of his time in London.”  _ He clears his throat.  _ “In short, no.” _

“I’ll have to think of a better nickname, then,” you reply. “I could call you Watson! He was a Doctor.”

“ _ Yes, but he was a medical doctor. I have three doctorates, but none of them are in medicine, _ ” he says. 

“Dammit. Back to square one.”

_ “Morgan calls me-- ah, by my name,”  _ he says, and you’re  _ totally  _ convinced.

“Hmm, somehow I doubt that, Spencer,” you tease. “I guess I’ll stick to your name until I can look up a suitably famous fictional crime fighter.”

_ “Or you could just call me by my name,”  _ Reid says dryly.  _ “For some reason, everyone forgets that option.” _

“Let me guess, they ruffle your hair all the time too,” you say with a grin. 

_ “Not— Not all the time. We’re FBI agents!” _ Spencer starts, and you laugh. 

“You’re totally the baby of the workplace, aren’t you!” you crow. 

_ “I’m an adult. I’m 27 years old!” _ he exclaims.

“27 in an office full of 30 and 40 year olds,” you say. “I’m 26, and my 20 year-old employees look like embryos to me.”

_ “That’s because-- I have three Ph.Ds and three  _ additional  _ B.A.s!”  _ he splutters.  _ “I’m not a kid!” _

“Oh, no one’s doubting that big ol’ brian of yours,” you reply. “But you have to admit there’s a little bit of little brother vibe going there. Just a  _ smidge _ .”

_ “I will admit nothing,”  _ he says stubbornly, but you can hear the slight smile in his voice.  _ “And I did call for a reason, you know.” _

“Oh, by all means, young one, enlighten me,” you tease.

_ “Oh for-- You’re  _ younger  _ than me by a year!”  _ he exclaims with a laugh. 

“I don’t make the rules, Spencer,” you say simply.

_ “No, but adhering to the constraints of time is something most people are forced to do,”  _ he replies.

“I have wise eyes and an old soul. I could totally make a case for being 27,” you say as you work hard to keep the laughter out of your voice. “The White House will find that I can be quite compelling.”

_ “Of all the insane things the American people have petitioned the government for, I think the right to legally change your age is the craziest one I’ve heard,”  _ he laughs.  _ “But I wish you luck, I guess.”  _

“Though they seem dubious wishes, I accept them nonetheless,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Now, what did you want to talk about?”

You can feel the mood shift on the other side of the line.

_ “We’ve got a case,”  _ he says after a moment.  _ “I probably won’t be able to make our date this afternoon.” _

“Bummer,” you say, and you try not to sound too disappointed because it’s been  _ one  _ date (a date that lasted  _ six  _ hours, but still only one date) and two fifteen minute conversations.. “But I guess that’s the price I pay, trying to date a G-man. Where are you flying to?”

_ “Phoenix, Arizona,”  _ Spencer replies.  _ “And did you just call me a G-man?” _

“I deflect disappointment through humor,” you say. “It’s my fatal flaw.”

_ “Well, it could be worse, I guess,”  _ he replies.  _ “You could be an international fugitive with a shady past. That would certainly put a damper on this relationship.” _

“Oh, I promise, bad jokes and a caffeine addiction are about as shady as I get,” you laugh. “Tell me when you’re back in town and we can reschedule. I’d like to see you again.”

_ “I’ll keep you posted,”  _ Spencer says.  _ “But, hey, before I go, do you want to hear a joke?” _

You smile. 

“Always. Lay it on me, G-man.”

_ “Okay, so, how many existentialists does it take to screw in a light bulb?”  _ he starts, and you can’t believe he’s even  _ real _ .

A man sitting at one of your cafe tables scribbles something down and takes a sip of cold coffee. He stares at you, a distant look on his face that shifts almost imperceptibly into a cold anger. His pen scratches through the first page of the notepad on which he’s writing. 

But you don’t notice. You’re busy laughing uncontrollably at a punchline that makes astoundingly little sense to you, but was so earnestly delivered the only thing you can do is laugh and laugh and laugh.

He writes faster, grip on the pen tightening as you desperately try to stifle your giggles in order to wish Spencer a safe trip. 

You’ll regret not noticing. 

But until then, you savour the feeling of warmth in your chest, and smiling so hard your cheeks ache and all you can do is wait for his plane to land.


End file.
